


Training Exercise

by CariZee



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consent Issues, M/M, Mindfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:18:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3193292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CariZee/pseuds/CariZee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>M has a bad habit of sending baby agents after Tiago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Training Exercise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jamesraoulsilva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesraoulsilva/gifts).



> My first 00Silva fic! Only in this case it's James/Tiago, because that's what my giftee jamesraoulsilva wanted. Plus powerplay, some mindfuckery, and even some fluff! I'm so tempted to keep going with this, too. I hope you enjoy it, it's so much better thanks to my beta Chris Quinton's help and Britpicking.
> 
> Comments would be a joy.

M has a bad habit of sending baby agents after Tiago.

 _Training exercises_ , she calls them. A part of the vetting process, separating the good from the mediocre, the mediocre from the perilously bad. Not that she bothers sending the perilously bad to tail Tiago. There’s putting up with M’s games and then there’s wasting Tiago’s time, and neither of them care to do that.

The mediocre are easy enough to notice. Hong Kong is a cosmopolitan place, bustling and crowded like any major city. But a sharp pair of eyes can still discern the bystander who looks a bit _too_ aimless, the tourist who for some reason decides Tiago needs to be part of his third panoramic shot in a row. Silly. Worse, _lazy_. Here as a tourist? Honestly, it’s like they don’t care at all.

The mediocre agents either get Tiago leading them on a goose chase that leaves them hopelessly lost, or when he’s feeling impatient, trussed up like a Christmas goose for M to collect at the nearest bus depot at her leisure. After the fifth one of these in six weeks he calls her up, disgruntled.

“Honestly, Mummy,” Tiago chides over a bowl of shrimp congee. He's in Tasty, his favorite little restaurant in Kowloon, and even though he took his lunch early it's still fairly noisy in here. “What have I done to deserve this? Are you still upset about last month? Because Beijing can’t prove anything, you know. I was quite careful about that.”

He can barely hear M's clipped reply. “If I were still upset over last month, you’d be in the hands of the Chinese right now and I’d have six of my agents back on British soil,” she says coolly.

Well, that’s confirmation of a deal that Tiago has suspected but not known for sure until now. He grins shark-like into his phone. “I always knew you loved me best.”

“You’re not a complete waste of my time, although if you try to hide something like that from me again, you’ll _wish_ I’d handed you over to the Chinese.”

Tiago laughs, loud and rich. A few of the other patrons glance his way, but their eyes don’t linger long. Tiago can blend in with the best of them when he wants to, but today he’s feeling flamboyant. His persona is a wealthy businessman, in a silver-threaded suit that would be perfectly ostentatious on a lesser man but on him looks like just another layer of skin. Lustrous agate cufflinks match his eyes, dark brown hair just barely long enough to start curling at the edges, black leather shoes that shine despite the occasional filth in the streets. “Ah, M. It does my heart good to hear how much you care.”

“Does it? Then let me add a caveat: you’ll participate, and gladly, in the field training of MI6 agents until I feel that you, and they, have learned their lessons. In their case, the lesson is one that may help keep them alive someday. In yours,” and her voice sharpens to that xytheric edge Tiago enjoys so much, “it’s that my directions are always best followed, and without any of your _embellishments_ , Mister Rodriguez. Is that clear?”

 _Crystal_ , Tiago thinks as he swallows his mouthful of rice. But it would never do to simply tell her that. “Moving back to London has made you a bit tetchy, Mummy.”

“Imagine how much worse things will be for you if my mood advances from tetchy to full-on irritated.” The call ends, and Tiago forces the smile he’s been unable to quash while talking with her off his face. Not that he’s ever questioned his favored son status, but it’s always nice to have confirmation from Herself.

It was the end of an era, when M was called in from Hong Kong for a promotion. Theirs is a tight-knit field office, a family affair, although M would scoff at that claim in her haughty, inimitable way. Tiago had thought he would be recalled to London as well. He’s past ready to shoot, very literally, for the coveted 00 status. But M has been quiet on that front, and Tiago had languished in obscurity for several months before deciding to do something that reminded her of his value. That his gesture hadn’t gone completely to plan was disappointing, but such was the nature of the beast, and M understood. There was no direct evidence and the hacking had been undeniably useful, and so M had decided to punish him by making him an object of investigation instead of a political prisoner.

It’s more than Tiago’s real mother had ever done for him.

Tiago finishes his porridge, stands and straightens his jacket, then heads back out into the sunshine. It’s March, the best time of year for good weather in Hong Kong, and he moves confidently through the crowd. He hails a taxi to carry him back to the office. He’ll spend the rest of the day playing nice and filing reports he should have finished last week, but was too busy to bother with. He can’t afford to do _too_ good a job running the office now M is gone, after all, or they’ll make him stay. Bureaucratic competence is always rewarded with increasingly boring advancements, and Tiago isn’t built for boredom.

MI6’s Hong Kong field office is on the fifteenth floor of a skyscraper, toweringly beautiful in a city already rife with beauty. For purely aesthetic reasons Tiago prefers Hong Kong over London, the sparkling modernity of it favorably juxtaposed with London’s tedious love affair with decrepit architecture. When he _is_ recalled, he hopes to be sent out into the field again soon. Bolivia would be exciting. Or South Africa, it’s been a while since he’s experienced Capetown.

Tiago makes his way into the lobby, only partially paying attention to his surroundings as he considers his future. He recognizes most of the people, and those few he doesn’t know on sight aren’t especially remarkable, although one is a bit loud.

“No, we’re not bloody diversifying right now…no, I don’t care what Rogers has to say, not after that disaster last year with the yen.” The speaker is pacing while on his mobile phone, scowling in a way that seems to suit his craggy, unconventionally handsome face. He’s British, that much is clear from the accent, not to mention the cut of his suit, but he’s fitter than most office drones. Broad shoulders just barely strain the edges of his jacket, and Tiago mentally tuts as he walks past the man. An ill-fitting suit is a crime, in his opinion, and this man would be so lovely otherwise.

Tiago is _almost_ past him when the man suddenly switches directions, and their bodies brush lightly in a near-collision. The man looks up at him, startled. “Sorry,” he says brusquely, then moves away and continues to complain about the stock market. Tiago simply smiles and heads for the elevator.

He gets drawn into conversation with the security guard at the front desk, newly returned to work several months after the birth of her third child. A minute later Tiago steps into the elevator with three other people, his eyes casually scanning the lobby one last time. The noisy businessman on the cell phone is gone.

Instinct suddenly kicks in and Tiago spares a moment to feel his left pocket, then breaks into laughter just as the doors close. The other occupants of the elevator stare at him like he’s mad and he doesn’t blame them, but it’s so perfectly hilarious he can’t resist. _Outplayed_. Finally! Not that Tiago intends to let that state of affairs lie, but it’s delightful nonetheless.

Right now there’s a man racing up fifteen flights of stairs to try and break into the office. Tiago has every intention of seeing this event as it unfolds. Said man—an MI6 agent, Tiago is sure of it—is certainly very fit, but he’s underestimated the speed of these elevators.

Tiago gets off on his floor and immediately heads for the alcove to the right of the elevator, on the opposite side of the stairwell. He ensures he can’t be seen and waits. Sure enough, a minute later the door at the end of the hall opens. Tiago doesn’t try to look, he just listens as the agent endeavors to catch his breath even as he walks on smooth, fast feet down to the office door. One swipe of Tiago’s keycard opens the door, and the light pant of the man’s breath pauses on a satisfied hum as he heads inside.

Tiago breaks cover then. He heads down the hall and slips his hand between the door and the frame before it has a chance to close. He peeks in to see whether or not the agent will be able to avoid the rest of the countermeasures he’s installed. Tiago shares the office with four other people, none of whom are here at the moment, thankfully, but that means he wasn’t able to be as lethal as he’d originally intended with his safety precautions.

“Bloody hell,” he hears the agent mutter, and Tiago smiles to himself. Just because they’re not _actually_ lethal doesn’t mean they can’t appear that way. This seems as good a time to make his entrance as any.

“Hello, Agent,” Tiago purrs, stepping into the office. It’s the businessman, facing away from him and not able to turn, thanks to the pressure plate beneath his feet. Good. “Welcome. How do you like the office?”

“It’s not…quite as hospitable as I’d hoped it would be,” the man says, tilting his head so he can see Tiago. His expression is stoic, but there’s a certain gleam in his eye that makes Tiago want to draw this out because, apparently, he’s not the only one having fun. “Which I should have assumed.”

“True,” Tiago agrees. “But at least you got here, which is more than any of your contemporaries could say.” He sees the agent’s lip curl, and grins. “Oh, you aren’t terribly fond of your fellow field agents, then, are you, Mister…” He waits, and the man doesn’t disappoint.

“Bond. James Bond.”

“Mister Bond,” Tiago says. He likes the way the word hollows out his mouth when he speaks it, making space for itself between tongue and soft palate. _Bond_. It rings like a bell. “And I’m Tiago Rodriguez, which I’m sure you already know. That was a beautiful grab you did in the lobby.”

Bond looks pleased. “Thank you.”

“Such a shame it ended with you here, paralyzed on my terrain, like a rat driven into a corner.” The pleased twinkle fades out of Bond’s eyes, and Tiago feels satisfaction roll through him like a wave. He does so love to prod.

“You aren’t going to do anything that will result in my death,” Bond says confidently. “M would have your head.”

Tiago comes around Bond to sit on the edge of the information officer’s desk. He’s so glad everyone is away at lunch. He can take his time with this. That timing is down to Bond, of course, the man is clearly not completely incompetent. Tiago scratches his jaw thoughtfully. “You think M loves you best?”

“Do you?” Bond challenges, and Tiago laughs again. This is the most fun he’s had in a single hour since he blew up a barge three weeks ago.

It was a drug-carrying barge, it had it coming.

“Oh, Mister Bond,” Tiago says on a happy sigh. “I _know_ it. The question isn’t where I fit into the hierarchy of our lofty mother’s affections. It isn’t even where _you_ fit, as enjoyable as it would be to debate that with you. The question is, what are you going to do now?” He gestures to the floor. “That trap you stepped into may or may not be lethal, you have no way of knowing. You stand in my territory, you aren’t carrying any identification on you that marks you as an agent of MI6—you’re not that stupid, I trust—and I could explain your corpse away to anyone who bothered to ask me about it, even Herself. So again. What will you do now?”

Bond’s confidence is shaken, but only slightly. “You didn’t damage any of the other agents who attempted to pursue you. You won’t hurt me.”

“None of those other agents got this far. I feel positively _threatened_ ,” Tiago exclaims, pressing one hand to his chest. “Now stop stalling, Mister Bond. What is your next move?”

Bond glances casually around the office. Tiago watches him take it in, sees him realize everything that he could possibly use as a weapon is out of reach, and he can’t lunge for Tiago without stepping off the pressure plate. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to let me go?” he asks at last, a mischievous little smile curling his mouth.

“Hmm…bargaining.” Tiago leans back onto his hands and considers. “Well, it’s a good start, a decent strategy, but what can you possibly offer me that I want?” Bond opens his mouth but Tiago holds up a hand. “Ah-ah. Truly consider this. What if I were your enemy? Or your competitor? Because at the moment, you’re neither to me,” and he sees how this bothers Bond, that Tiago doesn’t regard him as an equal, but Tiago’s getting far more pleasure out of being honest than soothing. “And you’ve already failed to appeal to my sense of responsibility and duty. What is left to you?”

Tiago sits still as Bond’s eyes rove over him, taking everything in. Tiago knows he comes off as arrogant, but honestly, it’s warranted. He’ll be a 00 before the year is out, and if Bond is to stand a chance against that kind of assuredness then he better have something truly inspired up his sleeve.

Bond smiles again, brilliant white teeth splitting his tanned face. “Nothing but myself, I suppose.”

“An exchange of services?”

“I would have called it a blowjob, but if that’s the way you want to phrase it,” Bond drawls, and now Tiago _is_ surprised, because James Bond is many things: he’s an alpha male, a predator, he’s a decent actor and a moderately quick thinker, but Tiago didn’t imagine _this_ particular service was one that would be on offer.

“Oh, Mister Bond,” he says with mock astonishment to mask the genuine emotion beneath it. “Sexual favors in exchange for your freedom? You’re assuming quite a lot, don’t you think?”

“Am I?” Bond asked. “Because from everything I’ve seen and read about you—and I’ve read quite a lot—you’re not the type to balk at a challenge.”

“And you think you’d be a challenge for me?’

“Oh, I know it,” Bond murmurs, his devilish blue eyes drilling holes into Tiago’s skull, and that has gone far enough. Tiago glances at the Rolex on his wrist. There isn’t enough time for the sort of scene he’d love to set up, but he’d not going to end this with James Bond having the upper hand. He reaches back into the top drawer of the desk and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. They’re standard MI6 issue, and the sort of thing every station has on hand. You never know when you’ll need to apprehend someone and drag them off for interrogation, after all.

Bond eyes the cuffs with practiced disdain. “Not very original, Mister Rodriguez.”

Tiago chuckles, mildly scornful. “I love that you think you know what I’m going to do,” he says as he moves around behind Bond again. “It makes disabusing you of your notions all the sweeter. Hands.” Bond puts them behind his back and Tiago fastens them securely, then sets his own hands on Bond’s shoulders. “First things first…let’s make sure you’re not carrying anything I need to know about, hmm?”

“You mean apart from my gun?” Bond asks as Tiago runs his palms along the outside of Bond’s arms, then the insides, then down to his waist.

“Yes, Mister Bond,” Tiago says, bypassing the weapon in his shoulder holster—the suit really did a lovely job of masking it, it’s too bad it failed in other areas—to brush the backs of his fingers over Bond’s lovely round arse, the thin fabric of the suit not enough to really diminish the pressure. “I mean apart—” now Tiago reaches around to the front and rubs his hand against Bond’s hardening cock, and hmm, that was _fast_ , perhaps not being original with handcuffs really does do it for this agent, “—from your _gun_.” There’s a set of lock picks in the sole of his left shoe and a knife strapped to his right calf, but apart from those he’s clean.

“Lovely.” Tiago moves around to face Bond, smiling at the sight of the growing bulge in the agent’s trousers. “Now, here’s the game, Mister Bond. You mustn’t move from the pressure plate, or we’re both going to greatly regret it.” That’s true; the gas it triggers is absolutely vile and would leave them nauseous for hours. “I’ll disable the mechanism after I’m done. Until then, you don’t move.”

Bond raises one eyebrow. “Unless you plan on bringing over a chair to stand on, I don’t see how I’m going to be able to oblige you.”

Tiago brushes his hand from the sharp edge of Bond’s cheekbone down over his neck, across the smooth Windsor knot of his blue silk tie—it’s color matches his icy eyes almost perfectly—and down, down his strong, broad chest until Tiago’s cupping his erection. “You will oblige me, Mister Bond,” Tiago whispers in his ear, “by standing very, veeery still.”

Then Tiago goes to his knees, and James Bond stops breathing. Just for a moment, but Tiago grins as he leans in to trace his lips over the outline of his erection. “Perfect,” he breathes. “Now.” He glances up at Bond beneath heavy eyelids, enjoying the way the tables have turned. The appearance of submission can give one so much more advantage than simple, brutal strength. “I don’t care if you think of me or England, but remember—this is for your freedom, so do try to cooperate.”

Tiago opens James’ belt, unzips his fly and slides his hand inside to play. The fabric is very soft, a surprisingly sensual touch for such a hard-looking man. But then, Tiago muses as he gently guides Bond’s firming cock through the slit in his pants, it would be terribly dull if James Bond were only what he appears to be.

Tiago strokes Bond’s cock, so softly at first, barely even touching it to see if Bond is ticklish. Tiago is game for a lot of things, but he _really_ doesn’t want to provoke the man into jumping if he’s particularly sensitive, because this gas truly is noxious. But Bond is utterly still, almost rigid, his hands pulled behind his body and putting the clean lines of his torso on display, the long, smooth muscles of his abdomen just begging to be stroked. Tiago is nothing if not a multitasker, so once Bond is suitably erect, his handsome cock—and it is handsome, Tiago has rarely seen a prettier prick and he’s seen quite a few up close—jutting from his body like a bright red flagpole, Tiago carefully leans forward and closes his lips around the head.

Bond doesn’t jump, so Tiago gives him a little kitten lick just beneath the frenulum, fretting at the thin line of skin there to see what happens. Bond’s eyes are closed, his jaw clenched tight and oh, that just won’t do at all. Tiago reached up and untucks Bond’s shirt from his trousers, then slides his hand beneath the crisp white cotton. Bond’s eyes open with a jolt, a reluctant murmur drawn from his throat, and Tiago feels smugly satisfied for a moment before he goes back to work. Bond’s cock is thick and hot in his mouth, blood-warmed and urgent and Tiago lets himself enjoy this, the delicate spongy texture of the head contrasting beautifully to the slick hardness of the shaft. He leans further in, one hand stroking over Bond’s hip as the other reaches down to cup his balls, and oh, there’s that little sound again, tiny and reluctant and utterly helpless. It’s perfect.

Bond can’t thrust, he can’t risk shifting his weight and Tiago uses that handicap to torture him, sucking long and hard before he pulls back to tease Bond with just the tip of his tongue across Bond’s slit. Bond alternates between staring at the ceiling and glancing down, mostly up because it’s clear he’s close, already so close, it wouldn’t take Tiago long to push him over but it would be so much more _fun_ to leave him on edge for hours. Tiago wants to slick his fingers and press them inside of Bond, take him apart with his tongue and teeth, bite and lick him until he’s begging and then fuck him so brutally he has to gag Bond to keep him quiet. Tiago is sure he could make Bond beg, this man is dying for someone to take him down hard. Unfortunately, Tiago still has a few last vestiges of propriety, and those include not exposing Bond to people who have no business seeing this side of him.

Tiago goes for it, bobbing his head and taking Bond in and out of his throat, pressing hard up into his perineum and massaging his prostate from the outside as he digs his fingernails into the curve of Bond’s lower back. Bond makes a low, breathless hiss and begins to come, fighting to keep his muscles still but nevertheless bending to Tiago’s will. Tiago slowly pulls back with each fresh spasm, finally catching the last dribbles of Bond’s ejaculate on the flat of his tongue and tasting it for the first time, thick and bitter. Delicious.

Tiago leans back and removes his hands. “Don’t move,” he chides Bond gently as the man sways ever so slightly on his feet. Tiago stands and brushes out the wrinkles in his pants. “I’ll be right back.” He heads over to the control panel hidden behind a painting—it’s a cheesy move but classic, and he appreciates the ridiculousness of it—and deactivates the pressure plate as well as the rest of the defense system, then returns to Bond and, slowly and deliberately, puts him back together. Bond’s softening cock is resettled in its silken nest, his trousers are zipped, his belt refastened and his shirt tucked back in, all without looking away from his eyes, the chill of them now countered somewhat by the flush in Bond’s face and neck.

Finally Tiago reaches behind Bond and unlocks the handcuffs, holding Bond in a parody of an embrace for a long moment before he finally frees him. “There you are,” Tiago tells him kindly, with just a hint of mocking he can’t quite repress. “Free as a bird.” Only Bond is M’s bird, and whether he knows it or not yet he’s wearing jesses just like all of them. Even Tiago.

“That…” Bond clears his throat. “That wasn’t what I was expecting.” He glances down and, yes, Tiago is hard. It would take someone with more willpower than him _not_ to get hard taking apart this exquisite specimen, but he has the restraint to control it. Tiago won’t be led around by his dick, especially not by a cheeky MI6 baby agent who nearly got the better of him. The satisfaction an orgasm would give Tiago is nothing compared to the triumph of _winning_ , of bettering his opponent in any battlefield, even—or perhaps especially—a sexual one. “Don’t you—”

Tiago glances behind Bond just as his information officer opens the door. “Ah, Pauline!” Her timing couldn’t be any better.

“Mister Rodriguez.” Pauline’s dark eyes are calm, but she’s got both hands on her purse, which means she’s ready to start shooting if he gives the signal. God, but he loves competency. “Would you like me to come back later?”

“Not at all, not at all, my business with Mister Bond is just concluded.” Tiago turns and sets the cuffs back on top of the desk. “We’ll get out of your way.” He ushers Bond out into the hall, his hand set lightly on Bond’s back in the same place where he was digging his nails into flesh just moments ago. Bond very clearly resists the urge to snap at him for it, another subtle point in his favor. Tiago has already won the battle; for Bond to be churlish over a minor skirmish would be immature. This baby agent could go far.

“And now, we part,” Tiago says with a smile. He can still taste Bond in the back of his throat. He hopes it lasts all day. “Cheer up, James,” he adds at the agent’s displeased look. “You did better than most. You certainly got much further with _me_.”

“I don’t know how much further we could have got with my foot on that damn pressure plate,” Bond snaps, and oh, there’s the lion lashing out from within the man.

“With more time, who can say?” Tiago asks rhetorically. He hears the elevator slowing; it’s probably the rest of his team. He leans in and whispers in James’ ear,” Perhaps next time I’ll tie you to a chair first.”

“Be careful what ideas you plant in my head, Mister Rodriguez,” Bond whispers back. “Or I might be back to test that theory.” He turns suddenly and strides down the hall, bypassing the elevator in favor of the stairs. Tiago watches him go with a grin he can’t repress on his face, ignoring the startled looks he gets from his hackers as they go past him into the office. The door closes behind Bond, and Tiago sighs with contentment.

He wonders how quickly he can needle M into bringing him back to London. The sooner the better, because Tiago has the feeling that he hasn’t seen the last of Bond.

James Bond.

 

 


End file.
